A Century is All We Need
by Spicy-obsession
Summary: And even then, it wouldn't be enough because theirs is a slow-burning obsession that will ruin them both.
1. When it rains, it pours

A/N: Read this note before going further. "A Century is All We Need" is a loose series of moments/scenes based on my custom Femhawke and rivalmanced!Anders. It starts in early Act II, jumps around a lot chronologically, and will continue on 'til I run out of ideas XD Enjoy my disjointed ficcing, if you dare, and as always, reviews are appreciated.

Scenario: Hawke and Anders get stuck in a cave when it's storming outside.

"It looks like we'll be staying the night here," Hawke announces grimly. "Or at least until the rain lets up."

Anders curses under his breath and plops himself on the ground, rubbing his arms. "Outstanding."

"It could be worse." She glances at him. "We'll need a fire. Do you have enough mana for that?"

"Barely," he replies, feeling as hollow as his voice. "Let me see." Stretching his hand out to the area in front of him, he concentrates on feelings of _warm _and _heat, _slowly pulls up the last dregs of his power, and—with a grunt and wince—manages to conjure a small clutch of flames that sputter and flick erratically with every shallow breath he takes in the aftermath.

A bit disappointed with his creation but still pleased at having pulled out _something, _he looks up from his work to see Hawke staring at him and clears his throat. "Well. There you go. But you should know that I'm officially useless now until I've replenished."

The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Could be worse. I'm going to go look for more materials. I trust you to take care of that"—here, she gestures towards the fire—"while I'm gone."

"No problem," he mutters as she walks away, the greatsword gently clinking on her back. She always cuts an imposing figure for people to stare after, and he just so happens to be one of them; and now they're stuck in a cave for tonight due to inclement weather of all things. Whatever possessed him to collect herbal reagents in the Sundermount caves with only Hawke for an escort has thoroughly fled him at present, leaving only a peculiar uneasiness to swirl around in his gut.

It's only for a few hours, he tells himself, a few hours alone with Hawke is nothing—except that these days it's the farthest thing from nothing that he can get, and Anders isn't sure what a prolonged exposure to this woman will bring out in him later. He can still count on one hand the number of times Justice had made himself known during his interactions with her, and while each instance had resulted in nothing more unpleasant than an abrupt end to their debates, they are thoroughly trapped together this time.

He scoffs at himself. Here he is, a grown man whose stomach is doing somersaults because he can't make it through a single night with Hawke.

"I didn't find much, but this should help anyway," she says suddenly, and Anders silently praises the Maker for finding the steel not to jump at her voice. She arranges the sticks and straw around the fire, setting aside an even tinier ration for later.

The mage huddles closer to the flames and blows on his fingers. "I feel better already."

Hawke shakes her head. "Not quite." She pulls off her gauntlets and carelessly drops them on the ground. "We're completely drenched; you'll catch a cold or worse if you keep wearing those clothes." The shoulder guards are next. "We'll need to be close to each other to maximize body heat and generate optimum warmth."

Anders blinks owlishly at the growing pile of armor next to him, determined not to raise his head. "Wait, you're not suggesting…"

"…exactly what you're implying when you trailed off," she continues, tugging off her boots, "As a matter of fact, I am."

This is a dream. This is all simply a ridiculous dream because he hasn't been sleeping as often as he should. He scrambles for words, anything to prevent this horribly clichéd situation from happening. "I don't think that's such a good—"

"If you're not comfortable stripping, that's your prerogative," Hawke states firmly, "but I doubt that you'll be in fighting shape tomorrow, which, considering that you're the only healer around, would be mildly inconvenient."

"Alright already," he finally snaps, "I am, I am."

They undress without another word, the sounds of their clothes being peeled off echoing strangely against the cavern walls. Anders grits his teeth when his fingers keep slipping on a particular coat fastening and quickly glances at Hawke to see if she's watching his laughable attempts to remove his clothing. Her head's turned away, but the rest of her isn't, and Anders can _hear _the swallow he makes at the sight of her newly exposed flesh.

**Weak mortal. Is it how you've always imagined she would look? **No, Anders replies dazedly, it's even better, before he angrily shoves Justice back down. The damned spirit may have interrupted more than a few sessions with him and his lonely hand, but he won't ruin this, definitely not this. Eyes hungrily drink her up, sear the rippling lines of muscle on her back the near-invisible scars on her arms the generous curve of her breasts into his memory so he can hold them close inside himself when he's alone again.

And this is how it will always be, he thinks with his chest wound tight, looking looking looking but never touching. Or at least not in the way he wants, he realizes as she lets her dark hair down and shakes out the raindrops. He tears his gaze away. What he wouldn't give to hear her thoughts right now.

What he wouldn't give to have her feel the same way.

He has to break the silence eventually. "Don't you have a blanket or something in your pack?"

"Oh." Hawke rummages around in the bag and drags it out. "I nearly forgot. A bit damp, but it'll do for when we're drier."

"It looks small," Anders points out and immediately wants to punch himself for sounding so petulant.

"It's big enough as long as we huddle together."

"Right," he agrees, his mouth going dry. **Restrain yourself. Why you insist on mooning over this woman is beyond me. She would turn you in to the templars without a second thought if she could—**but she hasn't! Maker knows she's had every opportunity, and it can't be easy resisting the encouragement from that beast of an elf Fenris (may the blight take him), but here he is, and here she is, and Anders still hasn't figured out what to make of that single, contradictory fact about her.

"Anders? Still with me?"

A breath catches in his throat when he blinks away his umpteenth mental conversation to find Hawke pressing a hand to his forehead, then on the side of his neck. Her fingers are deliciously cool against his skin, and he fights the urge to grab her hand and bring it down lower past his chest, his abdomen, to other parts unknown. Heart thudding, he dares a glance at her face that betrays nothing (as usual) save for the tell-tale set of her jaw.

Ah. For all the gentleness in her execution, the gesture is clinical and detached, and he knows better than to pretend some ulterior meaning behind it. Hurt and annoyed at his sudden launch into romantic fantasy (yet again), Anders jerks away. "Yes," he says flatly, "no need to coddle me."

Hawke doesn't nod so much as slightly incline her head in his direction and returns to wringing the water from her leggings while Anders attends to his own clothes, chest burning, head swimming. Damn her. Damn her and her false concern and her quiet, self-assured ways.

The hour passes by unnoticed, with the two companions getting up periodically to feed the fire and check outside conditions as the storm rages on unabated. They don't exchange words unless absolutely necessary and Anders can barely breathe under the suffocating quiet. At random intervals throughout the evening, he had opened his mouth, ready to snap about something—anything, to make her talk—only to reel himself back in at the last minute. Let her speak first. Let Ms. Stoic Stone-Face make small talk for once.

Naturally, another hour goes by in silence. Every so often he sneaks a glance at her, but she always looks as lost in thought as he does. Even when he begins to shiver, she merely sits beside him and wraps the blanket around them both before directing her gaze back to the fire that has miraculously endured thus far. The entire lengths of their arms are touching, and soon enough Anders shivers for another reason. Of course, Hawke merely draws her knees close and continues to stare straight ahead like this is nothing, like stripping naked beside a teammate in a cave while it's storming outside happens all the time, and how _he's_ reacting isn't professional at all.

Bitter? _Hardly_.

At some point in the middle of what can be only be called his broodfest (and there's enough of his old self to find the humor in calling it such), Anders senses that nightfall has arrived despite there being no sudden drop in temperature or lightness in the cave and dully concludes that they will indeed be spending the night here. Terrific.

As if she has read his thoughts (and it wouldn't surprise him at all if she can in addition to her other godlike talents), Hawke smiles reassuringly. "We'll leave as soon as the rain stops. We haven't been gone long."

"You don't have a horde of patients waiting for you."

"No, but I do have people lined up outside my door with new troubles every week." She shrugs. "Best to enjoy this 'break' while I can."

Anders laughs humorlessly. "Tired of solving everyone's problems already?"

"No," she replies without a trace of irony.

"Condescendence, that's new for you," he goads further. It's an incredibly stupid idea, but he wants so badly for her to crack and let him see past the mask she wears for Kirkwall's populace.

She raises an eyebrow (a start.) "I enjoy helping others." _I thought you knew that about me. I thought you would understand. I thought we had that in common at least._ It all goes unsaid, and he ignores it because he's trying to get a damn rise out of her, but her last statement is too much for Justice to stay silent on. Anders fights hard, but he can already feel the familiar surge of rage fit to burst under his skin.

"Right, like you 'help' the mages."

She turns to look at him. "I am," she replies carefully, which pisses Anders off to no bloody end.

"Don't take that tone with me. I'm not someone whose boots you're usually falling over to lick."

The temperature in the cave seems to plummet several degrees. Anders should want to take it back, but he feels nothing but wild anticipation as Hawke blinks once, then twice, and _now_ he can see the cracks forming on that perfectly composed mask.

She closes her eyes and exhales. "This again."

"Yes," he grounds out, "this. Again. And again and again until you see how _warped _your views are."

"Oh, _I'm _warped," she says so quietly and quickly under her breath that he almost misses it.

"What was that?" he asks loudly, "I didn't quite hear that. Why don't you speak up and have an actual conversation with me?"

"Because they're never just conversations with you," she responds evenly.

"Because you walk away before they even start!"

"Or maybe it's that Vengeance makes an appearance and renders the entire attempt pointless."

"I've told you, he's the spirit of Justice."

She rounds on him then, her grey eyes reflecting something more genuine than that perpetual, maddening calm. "Don't try to dress it up, Anders," (and he's not too ashamed to acknowledge the thrill he gets from hearing her husky voice say his name), "I stand for justice as much as the next person, but that's not what he is."

"So sending mages to the Circle to be used and abused by their templar jailers is justice then? Tearing a child away from his family, never to see them again simply for whom he is, is justice? Telling someone who can shoot light from his fingertips that his gift is a curse, that everything about him is an affront to the Maker is the right thing to do?"

"I never said any of those things. I have no doubt practices within the Circle need to change, but the institution itself is necessary. The Circle provides guidance and instruction for people whose powers would otherwise spin out of control—"

"Naïve sentiments from a naïve fool," he snarls and yanks the blanket to his waist because what with the fire, the argument, and the sheer nearness of her Anders' blood is running molten hot. "Thank the Maker Bethany joined the Grey Wardens after all, or you probably would've thrown a bloody going-away party after turning her in to the Circle—"

Hawke's face goes white. "Don't," she warns.

Bringing up her sister is the lowest of blows, but he's far past caring. "Don't what? Tell the truth? Admit it, her magic's always been a liability to you; everything you ever did was to hide her from the templars—"

"Anders," she repeats.

"And Stroud was just a convenient solution. I'll bet you felt so relieved after saying goodbye too; I didn't see much of a reaction in the Deep Roads otherwise—"

"_Enough_," Hawke growls and slams him against the jagged cavern walls, Anders choking back a gasp from the shock of it.

The flames from the fire jump and flicker behind her, cloaking the thunderous expression on her face in an eerie silhouette. "I put up with a generous amount of bullshit," she says, biting off every word, "but there are some things no one is allowed to touch." She swallows. "Like Bethany." She presses him harder against the wall. "Especially Bethany."

His breath coming in light pants, Anders winces from the uneven stone digging into his back, but the rest of his attention is focused on the woman in front of him who has suddenly, wondrously become _alive_.

Hawke hasn't completely lost control (yet), but this is already more than he's ever born witness to. There's a tightness not only to her jaw, but to the set of her shoulders that bleeds into the vice-like grip she has on him. Anders forgets from time to time that she can easily overpower him if need be though he has often wondered what it must be like to be on the receiving end of her sword during a skirmish, and figures what's happening at the moment should feel pretty similar. She's even close enough for him to spot the beginnings of crow's feet on her eyes, eyes that hold him in place like chains—but his tastes have always ran kinkier than most.

When she exhales, he can feel her breath on his face; when she blinks, he can imagine the feather-light brush of her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks; when she adjusts her grip on him, he can feel every one of her fingers burning into his skin like a brand, and it takes all of his self-control and that of Justice's not to visibly shudder in pain-pleasure from the simple physicality of her.

Does she even know the effect she has on him? And what would happen if he were to finally reveal this confusing, all-consuming lust he has for her? **(Foolish human, you know it is not merely lust.)** No. He's gone through scenario after scenario in his mind, and the end results stay the same. He is left alone. The very idea of her welcoming him into her arms in acceptance makes him want to laugh—or cry. Pathetic. How much longer can he resist? Why does it have to be her, of all people?

"Ah," he retorts breathlessly, "it's about time you're reacting like a person."

"Does it make you feel better to treat me like a soulless statue?" she asks pointedly.

His eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Oh? You mean you're not?"

Hawke shakes her head. "You've already provoked me once."

"How else am I supposed to know you're actually feeling something then?"

She furrows her brow in disbelief. "Are—are you joking?"

"Am I laughing?"

"…I don't have to explain myself to you," she scoffs softly.

"And there you go," he snaps, temper flaring up again, "always _rising above it all _because you fancy yourself some kind of god who doesn't need feelings or maybe you're just too scared to deal with them!"

Hawke opens and closes her mouth. For the second time that night, Anders has rendered her momentarily speechless, but there is no vindictive satisfaction to savor from this particular triumph. The seconds drag by as they stare at each other, teasing apart the layers of anger and misunderstanding and frustration between them only to discover an undercurrent that is both wholly new and hauntingly familiar to those who have swam its depths.

As he watches the inner turmoil flash in and out across her features, his throat closes up with guilt. He likes to push Hawke to her limits, wants to break her if he could, all to distract himself from the cruel truth that he himself is slowly, inevitably unraveling apart in a way no one can empathize with—and a truth like that cuts him deeply.

The grip on his shoulders loosens as she begins to turn away.

"Wait," Anders begs and covers her hands with his; she stiffens. The scent of her—something woodsy, spicy—is making him dizzy. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" she questions, her voice rough with emotion.

Is he? "Yes."

The tension abruptly leaves the cave, and Hawke hangs her head, shoulders slumped. "I apologize as well."

_She's_ apologizing to _him_? How much more saint is she than woman? She's too good, much too good for an ex-Grey Warden apostate on the run whose body plays host to a spirit of the Fade.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking," Anders blurts out. No one knows. For all her Hightown acts of charity and public service, and her not-so noble exploits in Darktown, there isn't a single person in Kirkwall who can reveal anything about the person beneath the warrior's plating, the serene smile, and the stoic demeanor.

A pained sort of smirk seems to tug at her mouth before she deftly wipes it away. "What goes on in my head isn't that interesting."

"It sure would help," he remarks dryly, and Hawke laughs, a rare occurrence.

She starts to move away and frowns when he won't let go of her hands. Lips pursed, she says neutrally, "It's late. I suggest we get some sleep."

Something's off here. They aren't ready to go at each other's throats anymore, but he can still feel the hairs on his neck stand on end (and unless he's suddenly regained his mana to cast an impromptu lightning storm something else is clearly at work.) It doesn't take an idiot to figure out what isn't being said (what _needs _to be said), but he'll be damned if either one of them will voluntarily come out and state the obvious.

Or maybe he's gone and created another elaborate fantasy, and is putting words in her mouth and thoughts in her head. He should put up a sign marked "For Rent" already and slap it on his forehead; Justice could certainly use another voice as a companion. **That is not something to joke about.**

He irritably shoves Justice to the side again and returns to the inscrutable woman _almost _in his arms. Her skin is impossibly soft. There's the slightest catch in her breath when he impulsively runs his thumbs over the pulse of her wrists, and with an audible _thud _in his chest Anders thinks he's dreaming again. So it isn't just him.

"Let go," Hawke requests, her tone deceptively light, and he shakes his head, too flooded with questions to verbally answer back. Since when? For how long? Always? Just now? Does she know about _him_? He's floating; he's floating up and away because this is all happening to someone else, a long way off.

Who is he kidding? She's _had _to have known. "Hawke," he says unsteadily and leans forward, trying to close the achingly scant distance between their bodies.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn't budge an inch. "I won't ask again," she replies in a near-whisper.

Instantly, his face is a hair's breadth from hers. "Then don't," he returns hoarsely.

She shakes her head. "I—"

"Thomas, stop fighting me—this."

The warrior goes very, very still as soon as he utters her given name—no one but her father has ever used it—and even Anders pauses, shocked by his own daring. Has he gone too far? Boundaries are made to be broken, but not when they _make_ a person like the one struggling with them right now.

Hawke makes the decision for him. Taking a deep breath, she captures his mouth in a searing kiss, and for a brief moment in time, his mind goes completely blank: no thoughts on templars, on his clinic, on Justice, on tomorrow—nothing but the taste of her lips and the feel of her tongue sliding in, and suddenly he isn't far away at all; he's right here in this room, and he is awake, groaning into her mouth as his hands release her to span the length of her glorious back, his desire rising to meet—

And then she wrenches herself away from him, gets to her feet, and _looks_ at him in a way that he feels all the way down to his toes.

"Someone has to," she says harshly and wipes her mouth, her hand trembling violently. Hawke turns on her heel and pulls on the first layer of clothing. "I'm going to look for more firewood," she throws over her shoulder and abruptly leaves Anders to it, his blood on fire, panting, still grasping what has just occurred.

By the time Thomas returns from her scavenger hunt, the fire is sputtering on its last bits of fuel, and Anders is still in a sitting position, snoring softly. She carefully picks her way to the mage and lays down whatever she's managed to gather for the duration of the night. After stoking the fire back to its original strength, she strips to her smalls as her under-armor had still been damp (and still is) when she had hastily thrown it on and sits beside Anders' sleeping form. Closing her eyes, her head falls back against the wall. Despite having shucked off her armor, her shoulders sag from an unknown weight.

Thank the Maker for her warrior's discipline or who knows what would have happened had she not pulled away from him. Her hands briefly curl into fists, fingers scraping on the moist dirt. She knows exactly what would have followed. _And who says you didn't want that to happen instead_, the rogue thought whispers into her mind, and she makes a low, wrecked sound in her throat because it was unbelievably stupid of her to agree to help Anders of all people, and they should have braved the storm and fallen miserably ill the next day rather than sit here, waiting for the rain and the knot of heat coiled in her belly to die out.

_Desires are our downfall_. Thomas is in the midst of finally moving into the family's former estate after weeks of negotiations, neck-deep in running the mine business with Hubert where minor crises (and new infestations) seem to pop up every few days if not hours, and still blames herself for Bethany's tragic departure even though enough time has passed that her mother no longer shoots her withering glares whenever her sister's name is mentioned. If it isn't one problem, it's another (or two or three), and the last thing she needs is a man—_abomination, _she corrects herself—to occupy mental space that could be used for something infinitely more productive.

And of course he would be a renegade freedom fighter (or unstable revolutionary in her more honest moments). Of course he would represent everything she stands against and secretly liberate one mage right as she turns in another for blood magic, or worse. Of course he would be possessed. She has every reason, every cause, to reveal his location to the knight-commander, but on the days she strides into his clinic with the resolve set in her bones, he's holding a newly delivered infant in his arms, or soothing the rattling breaths of an old woman, or on his slower shifts enticing a cautious tabby to the saucer of milk she knows he sets aside every week, and she delays his arrest for just a little while longer.

Who is he to barge into her life? Who is he to tamper with her principles and convictions? The tighter she reigns in her temper, the more determined he is to draw it out. For every action she performs, there is an opposite reaction. The rest of her companions wisely don't comment on the mounting tension, but she knows Varric has probably already written several drafts on the "epic romance between the roguishly handsome apostate and the noble, upstanding knight." She smiles mirthlessly. At least _they_ would have a happy ending.

As Thomas grows sleepy, she gently tugs part of the blanket her way, and Anders stirs. Holding her breath, she watches him shift this way and that before settling back in again. At coming into contact with his bare skin once more, she involuntarily shivers and bites her lip. Her gaze guiltily travels from the line of his stubbled jaw down the narrow planes of his chest to linger on the near-invisible trail of blonde hair that dips beneath the blanket. She laughs shakily and tears her eyes away before she makes another mistake.

Still burning, she eventually falls asleep next to him. She's tired of fighting too.

Anders wakes up to several cricks in his neck. He had been ready to set Hawke on fire last night for that outrageous stunt with Justice solemnly agreeing with her course of action. She was right, of course, to move away when she did. She's always bloody right, but it didn't help his raging hard-on. Thinking he would confront her upon returning, hours passed before he grudgingly admitted defeat and promptly fell asleep with no dreams of her to torture him, thank Andraste.

After blinking the sleep from his eyes, he moves to stretch only to be prevented by a warm, dull weight. With a gulp, he looks down to see the warrior resting her head on his shoulder, her chest rising and falling with very breath, and the image _pulls _at his heart because he's imagined this set-up before—the both of them in bed with his arm around her as they chat about each other's day, her curly hair spread out on the pillows, their legs intertwined, his hand idly tracing patterns on her belly. She would talk like she never does in public, her voice high and soft, and he would silence her with a kiss, then another, and another until they would slowly move together in an easy, languid lovemaking that leaves the both of them breathless.

**She will be your ruin.** He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes her. "Th—Hawke."

"Hnn..." Her eyes flutter open, and they share a momentary gaze that she inevitably breaks. She sits up. "I'm awake," she affirms without a hitch in tone.

"The rain's stopped," he supplies helpfully.

The corner of her mouth twitches. "I should hope so."

Making a noncommittal noise, he rises to gather his things as she stretches, his brow knitted. So this is how she wants to play it. Like nothing ever happened. Fine, he can do that. Anders pulls on his coat with more force than is necessary and jams his feet into his boots. Behind him, he hears the gentle clink of plate metal being put back on, and he pictures her securing her gauntlets, adjusting her pauldrons, dusting her helmet, all with that steady care with which she treats her armor. He grits his teeth and bears it.

"Are you ready?" And just like that, there's a feather-light touch on his arm, and she _never _gives light, careless touches like this or rather, she does it to everyone but _him _and now her fingers are ever so placed on his sleeve, and he can feel the heat burning a hole through the fabric, which is why he can't quite explain how he's suddenly in her face with a death grip on _her _hand. Again. Justice is making a terrible clamor inside his head. Anders closes his eyes.

"Please," he begins without wavering. "Just." A beat. "Just don't."

When he doesn't hear an immediate response from her, he opens his eyes to find her looking back, her own stare liquid-dark and mesmeric. Holding his eyes, she methodically pries his hand off of hers, finger by finger until they are awkwardly hand-clasped. For several seconds, neither of them let go, and then Hawke pushes his hand back to his side, but not before curling her thumb over the sensitive skin of his open palm as she releases him. Anders doesn't remember if he's taken a single breath during this entire exchange.

"I won't do it again," she assures, and this time he feels rather than hears the fraying, raw ends of her open-ended apology. This is difficult for her too.

He attempts a smile and says gently, "Not unless you're ready for what that entails."

Hawke shakes her head. "No." Almost immediately, a myriad of emotions flicker across her face, and it ends when she bites down hard on her lip and murmurs, "Not yet."

Anders wisely does not say anything in return, and they move apart at last to begin their search for the way out, each one mulling over what the other has said.


	2. Remains of the day

Scene: Legacy DLC. Hawke considers the repercussions of making Bethany a Warden.

* * *

"I brought this on you."

Anders freezes, a flush creeping up his neck when he realizes the Hawke sisters haven't moved far enough from the campsite to be out of earshot. Or maybe he's the one who is too close because Varric is way over on the other side attending to Bianca, and he's sitting here fretting over food supplies. The fire loudly crackles in front of him, but he can still hear the low murmur of voices that seem to be coming from right behind his back.

"No one could have foreseen that."

"I should've asked first, I shouldn't have agreed so easily…"

"They wouldn't have told you anyway. Warden secrets."

"Regardless, I had a right to know."

Ah. So Hawke is still feeling guilty over what happened in the expedition. Would it have made the decision-making any easier had she known all the gory details? He thinks not. There had been no time to consider, to discuss; Bethany was turning bluer by the hour, her gaunt face spurring them to search for this alleged group of Wardens without another thought on the Afterwards. Anders wasn't even sure if they would run into Stroud or not. And then the other Wardens had suddenly appeared, and Hawke had only minutes to grip her sister's hands and tell her to keep safe before the two parties went their separate ways. Hawke didn't turn around to spare a glance.

He hears a sigh. "You did what you could. Don't blame yourself."

"It wasn't enough."

A soft chuckle. "After all this time, you're still shouldering the world's problems. Some things are simply out of your hands, sister."

"There was another alternative, Bethany, but I wanted you to live. Now look at the life I've doomed you to: a shortened lifespan, nightmares every night, darkspawn constantly clawing at the edges of your mind. If I had known, if only I had known…"

"But you didn't." There is a new edge to her voice now. "What's done is done. Please don't beat yourself up over this anymore, it's been three years."

A hoarse whisper. "I didn't stop Carver from attacking that ogre, and I couldn't even keep you safe. I just wanted to keep you safe."

"…oh sister, haven't you figured it out already? You can't save everyone from everything. You can only try and do your best."

_She wouldn't be who she is otherwise_, Anders wants to say. _After everything that's happened in the last 24 hours, you wouldn't be here, alive (for the most part) and well (all things considered), were it not for her. None of us would. You don't know how lucky you are to have someone like Hawke watching out for you. You couldn't possibly know how fucking _lucky—

**Enough. You are intruding. **Anders shakes his head, unclenches his hands, and gets up to go sit with Varric.

* * *

Anders can't sleep. Varric and Bethany have finally dozed off, but the dwarf's snores aren't to blame for his insomnia. There is so much to think about. So much he is wrong about. Magisters: the original darkspawn. He'll have to research this further as soon as they return to Kirkwall. Bethany tosses and turns, a frown on her face as she battles the latest nightmare. He swallows and searches for Hawke's bedroll only to spot her seated on a nearby boulder, her back to him. He doesn't know how long she has been there, awake, watching over them (as usual.) Who watches her?

At first, he is stuck. There is nothing he could say to her that would make things better. Talking to her leads to nowhere productive. She clearly wants to be alone. Shouldn't he be trying to sleep?

None of these reasons can explain why he finds himself walking over to her anyway, and when she doesn't flinch or move as he sits beside her, a small well of hope springs up in his chest that he quickly, vehemently squashes. Their interlude in _that _cave _that_ night was precisely that—an interlude. Granted, one that had potential until the day he asked Hawke to help him find Alrik in one of the underground passageways beneath the Gallows. If she had not been there, he would have killed Ella. He cannot forget the look on her face after he had regained control. She went to visit him at his clinic a few days later, and the argument that resulted brought half of Darktown's denizens to his doorstep. What chance could they have?

But he aches to be near her so he supposes this (the wanting and dreaming and watching and yearning) will have to do.

Anders jumps when she finally breaks the silence.

"Why didn't you tell me."

It's a question, an accusation, and a plea all rolled into one statement, but the tone is nonthreatening. He glances over to see her staring into the darkness, her profile etched in sharp relief. "I couldn't," he begins, picking his words carefully. "There are some things only the Wardens are privy to, and you can't know them until you've joined."

"How convenient of you to consider yourself as a Warden again," she replies.

He takes a deep breath, acknowledging the hit. "I was wrong. I thought that I had closed that chapter of my life, but the taint will always be inside of me. It's funny, I've been so preoccupied with the mages' plight in Kirkwall that I forgot that…"

He has her full attention now, her steady grey eyes trained on him, waiting for him to finish.

"…that you never stop being a Warden. Even in death."

"The Calling." The words are flat and drawn-out.

"Yes," he answers and feels as if he is the one who has handed Bethany her death sentence and his own as well.

"How long."

He dips his head. "Maybe twenty, thirty years."

Hawkes makes a small sound in her throat, gone too quickly for Anders to interpret, and rakes a hand through the dark curls of her hair. "Dammit," she says shakily, turning her head away.

Without thinking, Anders lightly touches her back. "I'm sor—"

The warrior jerks and grabs his hand, the muscles of her jaw working restlessly. "I don't want your sympathy," she grounds out. "I want an explanation."

His goodwill crumbles instantly as he yanks his hand back and snaps, "I gave you one."

"Three years too late!" she roars, jumping to her feet.

"And knowing it won't change anything," he snarls, getting up as well.

"My sister is breathing and walking and talking, but she isn't alive. What kind of life is that, Anders? Tell me."

"It's one where she's still standing in front of you!" How quickly they fall back into this pattern despite all of their efforts to remain civil. He doesn't know how else to talk to her these days. "And now that you know, would you have granted her a quicker death then? Could you have really done it, put the blade to her throat or her gut or her chest and tell her goodbye—"

"Don't," Hawke gasps, but Anders can't seem to stop.

"_You _chose to take her with us. _You _chose to look for Stroud. In the end, everything was your call." Laughing bitterly, he adds, "It always has been."

They both fall silent, taking the measure of each other. Sometimes he forgets that she's nearly his height and is startled when she can evenly meet his eyes. Hawke could also break him in half if she were so inclined. They breathe hard through their noses.

"Why didn't I leave her at home?" she asks in a voice so low he leans forward to hear her, a move he soon realizes is a mistake as the scent of her—however unkempt and dirty—washes over him. He instinctively shudders and prays that she doesn't notice.

She doesn't. "The templars were starting to come around, ask questions. I thought," she continues, shaking her head, "I thought that—with me—she…"

Bethany indeed knows her sister all too well. Tentatively, he puts his hands on her shoulders, and when she doesn't flinch, he says, "After you decided to look for the Wardens, we were lost down there for days. Bethany, she asked you over and over to just kill her and get it over with, remember? But you refused to give up. And when we finally found Stroud, he almost didn't take her, but you made that happen too. Can't you see?"

There is something like expectation in her gaze. "What do you see?"

_Mages and templars and injustice and darkspawn and chaos and uncertainty and lyrium and patients and stray cats and dwarves who talk too much and you. Always you. _"I see a woman who makes things happen. A woman who holds her family above all else and does her best to live honorably. Even I can see that, despite our differences."

Anders stops Hawke before she can protest. "You did help Bethany, in the best way you could."

Instead, she takes his hands away. "She's living on borrowed time."

"You can't save everyone you know," he exclaims exasperatedly and freezes at the look on her face as she realizes that he had overheard the sisters' conversation.

"Hawke," he begins to apologize, but she waves him off. "Just when I think there's something redeeming about you…"

Her response hurts him more than it should. "I didn't hear anymore after that, I swear. But she's right. You—"

"Go back to sleep," she orders, squaring her shoulders and turning away. "I'm taking the watch patrol tonight."

"_No_," he growls, blocking her path. "Listen to me, Thomas."

A thrill runs up his spine at the sound of those two simple syllables (every time why must it be every single damn time), like he's uttered a curse and a prayer. As always, she stops when he says her name and holds him in place with a steely glare, waiting.

"I know you take my words with a grain of salt, but…it isn't your fault. None of this is. You didn't draw the darkspawn to us, you didn't _condemn_ Bethany to anything, and you haven't failed as a daughter or a friend. You've accomplished more than you think."

The flare of her temper seems to die down again as she exhales, absorbing his laughable attempt at comfort, and Anders marvels at this dialogue they're having because this is the first real conversation between them since the disaster with Alrik months ago—only this time, he's bearing witness to all of the rawness and vulnerabilities beneath the warrior's plating. Now he knows, heart pounding in his ears, now he knows what brings her low. Will he use it against her, or keep this new piece of knowledge locked away in his chest, merely one more secret about her to take out and hold in his fingers at night?

Can she read him? He worries. Maker knows he wears his feelings on his threadbare sleeve often enough, but Hawke gives no hint of acknowledgment as she nods slowly. "Bethany's returning to Ansburg as soon as we get back to Kirkwall. She'll rest at the house for the night, but in the morning… will I ever see her again?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I didn't think we would ever see her again after the Deep Roads, but it seems I was wrong."

"When it's time for her Calling—are Wardens permitted to contact their families before going into the Deep Roads?"

"Most Wardens cut off all ties to their families after their Joining. It's easier that way. But," he continues quickly, "there aren't any rules barring her from seeing you and your mother."

"She has a choice then," Hawke notes with some satisfaction. "At the very least, she can choose this."

There must be a way to recover this conversation. "The life of a Warden isn't always doom and gloom," he says lightly. "Most friendships forged between Wardens are for life. She will never feel alone."

She fixes with him that unblinking stare. "And what of _your_ friendships?" she points out.

How does she do that? How does she make him scramble for words in every one of their exchanges? "Bethany's circumstances aren't as…unique as mine," he finishes lamely.

Hawke says nothing for a long time, her face twisting and shifting until she slowly shakes her head. "Stop making excuses."

"I—what?" He opens his mouth but can't get another word in edgewise as she puts up her hand. "You're the one who decided to leave the Wardens because you decided to let a spirit possess you and become this demon—"

"Andraste's ass, not this again—" he snarls, throwing his arms up.

"So _don't_, don't give me these tired justifications for the simple fact that you've screwed up tremendously and ran away instead of—"

"Instead of what?" And he's right back in her face again, nostrils flared and Justice brimming underneath his skin, "Instead of being dragged back to the Tower to be locked away again for a year or two or ten and have the templars make me Tranquil like all good mages should be? Oh you'd love that, wouldn't you—"

"For once this has nothing to do with mages and templars. It's about facing your mistakes and owning your decisions come hell or high water, because running away is not, has never _been_, a bloody cure-all solution—"

"Don't you dare judge my choices, you weren't born with magic and branded less than human since infancy, you've never been a Warden plagued by nightmares of the Archdemon calling to you every night with your mortality constantly looming over your head—"

"That doesn't mean you walk away from your life on a whim!" Hawke shouts, nearly hoarse. "Because of me, Bethany won't even live to see the far side of fifty," and here her voice shudders, threatening to break, "but I won't be sneaking her away from her duties or telling her to run while she can. You're right. What happened in the Deep Roads was my decision, my call." She swallows. "But I'm not afraid to live with the consequences."

**Foolish woman. The gall of her assumptions. She knows nothing of the mages' suffering. She knows nothing of you—**Anders is close, dangerously close to his breaking point, and the blue winks in and out of his veins like firelight. He takes several breaths, digs his feet into the dirt, and somehow regains tenuous, fragile control.

But where the hell is this argument going? Hawke is spare with words, and arguments with her are even rarer (unless you count yours truly), so why now? Why the pointless goading? Suddenly, Anders' shoulders slump, bone-tired and weary of darkspawn, Tevinter magisters, and Hawke's eyes looking down on him. He gets this often enough from Aveline and Fenris, but Hawke's version positively exhausts him.

"Yes, you're right," he hears himself say, "you are a moral, upstanding citizen, and I'm just a dirty apostate living in the sewers. Congratulations, you're a better person than I am. Just turn me in to the Wardens while we're here."

The fire that seems to burst from her snuffs out just as quickly, and Hawke blinks, shaking her head as if waking up from the effects of whatever had posses—taken over her. "I—"

Anders holds up his hands. "Go on, I won't even try to fight this time."

Suddenly, the set of her jaw can cut through glass, and she slaps his hands away. "I will not," she grits, "be toyed with."

And before he can stop himself, "Then Maker, what are you doing to _me_?"

For a few seconds, Hawke actually appears confused, as if she doesn't know what Anders could possibly be talking about. It's a rare expression, and the treacherous part of his mind notes how endearing it looks on her, all slightly cocked head and wrinkled brow, before her face wipes itself clean again. She swallows, lips parting, and exhales. "Is that what you think I've been doing?"

How clueless can she be? Scoffing, he throws his hands up in the air. "What do you call _this_ then? What do you call the past three years?"

Hawke keeps her eyes on him. "I thought," she answers quietly, "that I had made it clear to you. After the incident with Ser Alrik…"

"Right, the argument afterwards in my clinic. Let's see, there was shouting, objects thrown, and words that shouldn't have—or should have—been said. Then you stormed out. Do you honestly believe anything was resolved from that mess? If so, you're a lot more socially incompetent than most people think—"

"Then let me make it clear," she says flatly and grabs his shoulders. Again, the minute difference in height throws him off, and Anders can't _not_ pay attention to the rock-steady conviction in her grey eyes. Her voice keeps even and level from the start. "You have a corrupt spirit cohabitating inside your body. A few weeks ago you would have killed Ella had I not stopped you. Earlier today, Corypheus nearly drove you insane, and I had to knock you out. This—this isn't right." Hawke's grip on him tightens. "We're not right."

Somewhere, a pin drops, but no one is awake to hear it. The mage glances away, eyes shut. There she goes again, saying what needs to be said. Some nights he can recall the ghost-nick on the corner of his mouth from where she had kissed and bitten him that night in the cave. His tongue unconsciously darts out, wetting that spot. That wasn't right either. None of this is. He's wrong, all wrong, and no good for her.

When he finally speaks, he doesn't quite register his words. "At last, the record's been set straight." Pulling away, he adds with no small touch of bitterness, "Forgive me madam, for taking up so much of your time."

Hawke nods and lets him go. "It's late, and we have an early day tomorrow. There's still the walk back to Kirkwall."

Anders watches campfire shadows exaggerate the circles under her eyes. "You're exhausted."

"I'll manage," she responds coolly.

She has dark, unidentifiable smudges on her cheeks. The straps holding her greatsword are cutting into her shoulders. Her hair is pulled tight and thin in a bun, but wavy strands keep escaping, and all he wants to do is tuck them behind her ears, wipe the filth from her face, take off her sword, and massage the weariness from her body. He sighs. "You always do."

And just like that, Anders returns to his bedroll, the ache in his chest no lessened. She couldn't have meant it. He turns over on his side, his back against her hunched figure on that same rock she was perched on earlier. She can't mean it. **There's much more important work to be done. Now you are done with her and can focus on the task at hand. **Eventually, he falls back to sleep.

* * *

"Ready?"

Startled, Bethany looks up to her sister holding her things—cradling, more like. She sighs inwardly, almost thankful to be returning to Ansburg. Seeing mother had been exhausting, but at least her reunion at the Hanged Man with Merrill, Varric, and the rest had almost made her feel normal again. She had choked on her mug of stale piss masquerading as ale, won money in several rounds of Diamondback, and even traded stories with Isabela. The only dampener on her evening was the sight of Thomas hunched over her drink, very quiet and very drunk. She had left early.

"Just about," Bethany replies, patting the space beside her on the bed. Thomas obligingly sits, the solid weight of her a comfort. "I'll leave within the hour."

"Would you like me to walk you part of the way?"

The back of her neck prickles. "I'll be fine. No need to hold my hand."

Thomas glances over, a wan smile on her face. "Maybe I simply want to."

As always, she can't help but indulge in her sister's overprotective leanings. "Walk me to the outskirts of town then. I'm sure your ragtag group can survive without you for a few hours."

"Some days I'm not so sure," she chuckles.

"You've really become their leader over the years." Bethany smirks. "Not that I'm surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The younger sibling settles in, bumping her arm against her sister. "Oh nothing—you just have a way of bringing people together. Telling them what to do without sounding like you are. Making them follow you everywhere. It's a talent."

"And here I thought they kept in touch for the pleasure of my company."

"Haha, they do." Shaking her head, she adds, "I swear, they're all a bit in love with you."

There's a slight pause before Thomas says, "Now that's not true."

Bethany turns to face her. "Isn't it? Last night I won two sovereigns because Merrill couldn't keep her eyes off you, the sash tied around Fenris' wrist looks suspiciously like the ribbon you use for your hair, and aren't you and Isabela still…?"

"…not anymore, no," Thomas answers in a daze.

She laughs. "Don't look so shocked. I'm not blind, Sister; anyone with eyes could tell. Although the only one who didn't give you puppy dog eyes was Anders—"

And Bethany stops in amazement at the sudden, complete lack of expression on her sister's face; then an image from last night rises unbidden in her mind: Anders and Thomas seated side-by-side at the table, and the careful way they avoided touching each other. They had butted heads from their very first meeting, true, but watching them interact (or not interact) at the Hanged Man was a different animal altogether. She swallows loudly. _Oh, Maker._

"You care for him," she slowly realizes.

Thomas holds Bethany's wide-eyed stare for several seconds and drops her shoulders. "More than I should."

She bites her lip to stifle the nervous giggle threatening to bubble up. "Do the others know?" At her sister's raised eyebrow, she quickly finishes, "I guess not then."

"It isn't their concern." She rises to add another water canteen to Bethany's knapsack.

She decides to address the griffon in the room. "What about him?"

"What about him?" Thomas intones back.

"Sister—"

"He knows," she says firmly, "that nothing will come of it."

There isn't a visible or audible change in her older sister, but Bethany senses the shift in the air itself as it moves from tolerably tense to deadly quiet. She used to talk to Thomas about everything, but even right up until the night before the Deep Roads Expedition, she has always known that the mage running the free clinic in Darktown was—is—a closed subject, and for much different reasons now than before.

She tries anyway. "Do _you_?"

Thomas stills, hands fisted at her sides. "Bethany," she warns.

"You look tired," she presses, "and lonely."

"This doesn't have anything—"

"Would it kill you to let him in?"

Silence drops over them as Bethany squirms under her sister's scrutinizing gaze. This is the furthest she's pushed Thomas. She never has before, always nodding and going, "Yes, Sister," "I agree, Sister," or "You're right, Sister." She forgets, sometimes, how much Thomas hides from their mother, their friends, her—everyone.

The corners of Thomas's mouth twist, and Bethany has her answer. Slinging the knapsack over her back, she gets up and places a hand on her sister's shoulder. "I'm going to talk to Mother one more time." She squeezes. "Please…just think about what I said."

With that, Bethany turns on her heel and leaves her sister standing in the doorway.


	3. At any given moment

Scene: Hawke and Anders think about each other. Set before "When it rains, it pours."

* * *

It's the height. It's the height that gets to Thomas Hawke first because she's 5'11 (or 6'0 depending on the shoes), so there aren't too many men who can look her in the eye, but here is this mage-who-is-secretly-a-Grey-Warden in Darktown whose maps she wants proposing "a favor for a favor," meeting her gaze the entire time. That throws her off, has her agreeing to a clandestine meeting with his friend Karl before her mind catches up with her treacherous body, and by then of course, it's too late. Not that she's complaining or anything. Anders is tall. Tall is…good.

So is lanky—which he has in spades. It's the second thing she notices after their first meeting. Lanky is an "L" word, which has Thomas thinking of other words that end in "L" to describe this curious healer of hers: loose. Limber. Lithe. She stops herself mid-stream before her thoughts veer into more explicit territory. It's no good though. His build makes her that much more aware of her own frame, all taut muscle and broad shoulders that suit the greatsword she wields. She could overpower him, if she wanted to. Does she want to? She stops herself again.

That's also becoming difficult—the stopping bit. It wouldn't be so hard if she didn't drag him along on every adventure/treasure hunt/random crisis that _she_'s sucked into, but he's a healer and despite his apostate status (which Thomas will acknowledge as a Bad Thing and turn him in to the templars any day now, she _swears_), him being able to knit muscle and bones back together no questions asked is too valuable a talent (skill? Proclivity?) to have waste away in a tiny cell in the Gallows. Besides, Thomas Hawke likes doctors too. Maker. Maybe she simply likes everything.

Like how they meet in the middle. His hair, so blonde and light compared to her dark, curly locks. The milk-white of his skin set against her rich, olive complexion. Warm, brown eyes meeting cool, grey ones. She wants to rip that sad, feathered coat aside, ruck up his tunic, and discover what other contrasts lie beneath. She wants to do so many things to Anders that it's a wonder no one has read the longing on her face yet. No, not a wonder: Thomas is many things, but wearing her heart (and lust) on her sleeve isn't one of them.

She wonders if Anders notices anyway, how her eyes travel the lines of his body from the feet up when he has his back to her. Or that she's memorized the turn of his lips in a rare smile or more often smirk. Steals glances at the sheen of sweat on his neck as he works on a patient. Studies the elegant sweep of his collarbone. The perpetual stubble on his chin. His long, sharp nose. Anders' hands, nimble and quick, pressed to Thomas' bleeding abdomen while he murmurs a healing spell, then sliding down, down below when he's done—

"Hawke."

"Y-yes?" she recovers, and Anders is momentarily caught off-balance by the unguarded expression on his patient's face: eyes, hooded; forehead, smoothed; mouth, parted in expectation—

He shakes his head, regains speech. "Y-your shirt," he gestures uselessly, "I need you to raise it so I can get to the rest of the laceration."

Hawke blinks, her pre-natural serenity sliding back over her face. "Of course," she says smoothly and gathers the hem of her shirt, stopping right below her breastband. "Is this enough?"

"Yes," Anders manages with a suddenly dry throat, failing to clear it. "Just ah, hold still for a moment. I'll be quick."

He chants magical theorems under his breath while his hands make swift work of the cosmetically messy slash on her stomach. Her skin, warm and golden, flexes underneath his fingertips. Thank the Maker his clinic has been emptied for the afternoon, leaving only the two of them sitting together on a cot. Tempting fate, Anders glances up at her. She stares back, silent as the grave, refusing to break from his eyes. He swallows and looks down. "Almost finished."

Anders reaches for the salve while out of the corner of his eye, Hawke is still following his every movement. _That doesn't mean a damn thing, she's only suspicious of me, that's all, stop getting these crazy ideas in your head—_

"There," he continues loudly to cover the tremor in his voice, "You should apply this once every day for at least a week." The bottle of salve slips in his hands, but Hawke deftly catches it in mid-air. He cannot quite imagine how red his face must be at this moment.

She helps herself to the bandage roll next to him and tears off a long strip. "Thank you," she enunciates carefully, "I can take care of the rest." Hawke begins to wrap the wound while Anders puts away the rest of his medical apparatus, willing his hands to stop shaking.

When he at last turns around, the warrior has dressed herself again, her ramrod straight posture suggesting nothing about the wound beneath the armor. Anders nods and grips a nearby drawer-stand until his knuckles shine white. "Come back if there are any complications."

"Noted," she replies with that unflappable calm. Tilting her head to one side, Hawke adds, brow slightly furrowed, "Your hands were shaking earlier. Try to get some sleep." She slips out before the mage can reply, but it is just as well because Anders immediately collapses on the cot, eyes squeezed shut as he hurriedly unties his makeshift, drawstring trousers that have suddenly become tight.

_She can't know. _

Later, in the comfort of her room, Hawke hisses as she rubs a small amount of the salve onto her skin, but quiets when she pretends that it is not her fingers that are skimming across her stomach, nor her hand that unravels her breastband with habitual ease, and certainly not her own touch that eventually brings her to silent, trembling orgasm.


	4. In the wee hours

Scene: Set during "Remains of the day." Remember when Bethany left The Hanged Man early, before her sister, who was very drunk? Read on to see who helped her home.

* * *

In hindsight, Anders realizes, it was not the best idea to show up at The Hanged Man tonight even though Bethany would only be in town until tomorrow, where she would then return to Ansburg. Everybody had gotten cheerfully drunk—except him. Everybody had been swaying and laughing—except him. After several, overenthusiastic rounds of Diamondback, it was only natural that the group had elected him as the Designated Escort for their de facto leader who, besides himself, had avoided participating in most of the more enjoyable drunken shenanigans. Instead, Hawke had sat in her chair for the better part of the evening, nursing a mug of ale that had been continuously refilled.

And now he is currently trying his damnedest not to slam the door on Hawke's ass as he half-drags her through the doorway of the estate. How does he get into these situations again?

"Ssh, Anders," she whispers too loudly, "you don't want to wake up the entire house."

"Good idea," he adds. "In fact, we should get you to your room."

"I think," Hawke announces slowly, "I can walk from here."

He snorts. "Really. Up the stairs without falling?"

"You don't think I can?"

"Honestly, no."

She widens her eyes at him, head tilted. "Trust me."

It is cocky and reassuring and so typical, all at once, that he wants to believe her and let go to see what could happen. Instead Anders shakes his head, adjusting his grip on her. "Let's get you to your bed."

"Very well, doctor," Hawke concedes and proceeds to trip on the first step. He catches her before she can further humiliate herself.

"Oof," is her eloquent summation, and Anders nods in agreement.

"Right," he decides and scoops her up in his arms.

A few seconds pass while Hawke blinks away her surprise. She then smartly raps his chest with the back of her hand. "You need to eat more."

"And you need to eat less," Anders replies, "Cor, you're heavy."

Hawke hiccups. "Well how else am I supposed to haul around a greatsword?"

"You don't have to." They are halfway up the stairs. "You could take up archery or dueling, like Isabela."

She settles in more comfortably. "That would make quite the picture."

"You holding a skinny little bow? Yes, it would."

"No, I meant dressing like Isabela while dueling."

For laughs, Anders mentally squeezes Hawke into a white corset and gold jewelry only to realize at the last second that she and Isabela both have similar builds and complexions. Unnerved by how well the hypothetical outfit would suit her, he clears his throat. "And here we are. Mind getting the door for me?"

The inebriated warrior obliges, and the two sweep into her room with a flourish.

It is no surprise that Hawke keeps her room plain and tidy, with a water pitcher on the nightstand and her correspondence neatly organized on her writing desk. Stacks of folded clothes sit in a chair next to the wardrobe, ready to be put away. Whatever personal effects that do exist are not for public viewing with the only suggestion that Hawke stays here as a residence and not a guest is the unmade bed in the center. Anders hungrily drinks these details in, having never set foot in her room before.

"Come on," he says at last and carries Hawke the last several yards to deposit her on those messy covers.

"Wait," she murmurs and directs them to the ottoman at the foot of the bed. "I don't want to dirty the sheets, I just washed them. Could you…" And here, she vaguely gestures to her travel-worn clothes, looking up at him expectantly.

"Hawke," Anders begins, stymied. The ends of her hair tickle his neck. He sighs. "Sure." After setting her down carefully, he kneels to pull off a boot while the warrior has both hands braced on his shoulders for support.

Her foot rests solid and warm in his hands, and when he runs his fingers along the edge of her sock, she bucks, nearly nailing him in the face. He glares at Hawke, who has the grace to appear sheepish. "I wasn't expecting that."

Hawke, looking sheepish: not calm, not stately, not Together. Her very expression unnerves him, like he is peeping through a hole into some secret life of hers—another tidbit to hold close at night. The thought rises unbidden, but Anders just as quickly snuffs it out, reminding himself of the argument they had not two days before, deep under the Vinmark Mountains where she looked him square in the eye and denied the tension simmering between them while Bethany slept two bedrolls over. He had chosen to nod and walk away. Despite this new development, tonight will be no different.

With this in mind, he pushes the coat off of her shoulders. "Your arms," he says, and when she can only give a careless shrug instead, he sighs again. In seconds, he works one arm out of its sleeve, then the other. Her head abruptly lolls back, and he cannot resist commenting. "You can't be that drunk."

"I can hold my liquor in public," she quips.

"I was dragging you past your Hightown neighbors," he points out.

"The streets were basically empty."

"Look, is there anything else you want off?"

It takes Hawke a lip-chewing moment to decide. "Gloves."

Anders drops both dirt-encrusted gloves on the floor as she curls her hand over her chest. "My vest," she adds, "it's too tight."

Seriously? Suppressing a groan, he sets to work on the first button while she lifts her head back up to watch. "Thank you…for walking me back."

"Well we couldn't have a recently re-elevated Amell stumbling around Hightown drunk now, could we?"

Hawke chuckles. "As I've said before, I'm not that drunk."

"You haven't shouted at me or gone after my throat even once since we left The Hanged Man." He undoes the last button. "I say, you're drunk."

Anders brings Hawke to her feet, her hands on his arms. Blinking slowly, the smile she wears does not quite reach her eyes. "Maybe I'm just tired."

"Can't argue with that," he replies, steering her to the bed, "seeing as how barely forty-eight hours ago you defeated one of the original Magisters and lived to tell the tale."

She falls on the mattress with a soft _thump_. "I'd almost forgotten about that."

"Plus the weekly infestations in The Bone Pit—"

"—now you can't see Hubert going there to fix it—"

"—your volunteer patrols with Aveline—"

"—she needs all the help she can get, really—"

"—playing messenger girl between the Viscount and Arishok—"

"—I don't see anyone else willing to—"

"It all adds up eventually," Anders chides gently. "You're wearing yourself thin—"

"Hair," Hawke gasps, and suddenly she's clawing at the sides of her bun. "The hair, please, take it down."

Alarmed, he snaps the twine holding her hair in place, and one by one, her locks tumble out and across the pillow like ink, softening the jut of her sharp chin. "Hawke, what—"

"I _am_ tired," she repeats and covers her face. Something like a chuckle (or is it?) escapes through her hands. "So damn tired."

"Sleep will help—"

A dry, piercing sob silences him. Did he really just hear that? Are his ears working properly? Why hasn't Bethany returned yet? Anders does not remember how to breathe, or how he has come to sit down on the bed next to her shaking form. His hands fidget uselessly at his sides because helping her back home was a terrible idea, the most terrible of ideas.

"I can't even sleep on some nights," she finally whispers. "I just stay up and pretend to wake when Bodahn knocks on my door."

"Hawke," he begins again, and stops, the words dying in his throat.

"And what you told me before about what's in store for Bethany, Maker, she hasn't forgiven me for that yet. Maybe not ever."

His fingers grip the sides of the bed.

"I try really hard to sleep, I do, but I can't stop thinking—just, all this bloody thinking—"

Anders turns, leans over Hawke, and bends down, cupping the back of her head while he presses his nose into the crook of her neck and inhales. "Be quiet, Thomas."

Thomas Hawke does as she is told, and the only sound Anders can hear is the pounding in his chest.

Her hair. Sweet Maker, her hair: curly and thick and rich and soft (so soft) in his fingers that tremble to hold her in his arms that shake to touch her warm brown skin that smells like woods and hearths and dust and hot meals and _home_. Like he has come home at last to find Thomas waiting for him, heart in hand and laughter in her smile.

He breathes deeply, branding the image in his mind, of a future that can never be. She even told him as much, and yet here he is, crossing lines the both of them had futilely set. What will it take for him to let this—her—go? What will it take?

For a while, neither of them move, but soon he feels a pair of tentative arms wrap themselves around him, and Anders squeezes his eyes shut to pretend that what is happening right now can only be a dream because this cannot be real, no realer than their kiss in the cave all those months ago or their recent heart-to-heart under Corypheus' prison or any of the other infinitesimal moments where they sidestepped each other at the last second to avoid closing the distance between them and acknowledging that this, this—

"Anders."

Her voice, low and husky, is right next to his ear. He grunts softly in response, not trusting himself to raise his head to look at her, too afraid of what he might do.

"The Wardens' Calling—that's what will happen to you too, isn't it?"

No point in mincing truths, but he holds her tighter all the same. "Yes."

"And Bethany's nightmares," she presses, "you also have them."

"Right again."

Her head feels small and fragile in his hand. "Do they get worse?"

"Eventually."

She goes still. Anders counts his heartbeats. And then in tones so hushed he strains to hear, "I see."

The air is too dense, too charged with unspoken meaning that he is suffocating under the weight of it. "Why Hawke," he tries jokingly, "I had no idea you cared."

A pause. Then carefully, Hawke pushes him up, places her hands on his face, and forces him to look at her. Her cheeks are still flushed, her grey eyes too wide, too bright. "Of course I do," she insists in a fierce whisper, "why wouldn't I?"

Before he can answer, she smoothes back the blonde strands plastered to his forehead. "You, Fenris, Aveline, Merrill—you're all important to me."

He exhales. Ah, she means it like that. What other way would she mean it? Trust him to let his mind run away with the things she says. Suddenly, his chest feels too tight to contain him. **Leave her be. We have done what the others requested and escorted her home. There is no reason to linger here—**_Out, get out of my head!_

"Hey, are you alright?"

He mentally resurfaces to find her staring nose-to-nose at him, with only a hair's breadth of space between each other's mouths. He can feel each breath she takes. Swallowing hard, Anders nods. Hawke nods back, brow furrowed. "Was it Justice?" When he doesn't reply, she sighs. "I know he doesn't like me."

"Not at all," he confirms with a shaky laugh. "But it doesn't matter what he thinks." _None of it matters: not your stance on mages, not the company you keep, not my own issues like being a free mage sharing headspace with a spirit in Kirkwall in addition to Grey Warden status, not anything. I'd walk away from it all if you asked me to because I'm already fool enough to walk you home while you're drunk and honest with your hands on my face and your hair (your hair!) on the pillow when I didn't even have to be nice to you because after all, I'm not really your friend, just this stranger you decided to keep around for Makers knows what—_

Hawke puts a finger to his lips. "Be quiet, Anders."

He closes his eyes, blood caught on fire. _She's drunk. She's drunk. I'm not. This isn't right. _His mind recalls the image of her slowly shaking her head at him forty-eight hours before. '_We're not right, Anders.'_ There is no way she could have known the emotional tailspin she had sent him in afterwards. They had walked back to Kirkwall with Varric and Bethany between them as a buffer, chattering the whole earlier tonight at the Hanged Man they did not exchange a single word, both stubbornly holding on to their drink in silence while the other companions' clamor sounded around them.

Anders opens his eyes to see her wearing a puzzled smile: watching, waiting. "Silly me. Was I thinking out loud again?" he says hoarsely.

Hawke gives a little shrug. "Don't worry about it. It's cute."

Inwardly cursing, he takes her hand and presses her broad palm to his mouth, his fingers curling over hers. "A bad habit of mine, I'm afraid," he mumbles on her skin. Not baby-smooth like those of the noblewomen she now often finds herself in the company of, but rough and calloused, strong and experienced—warm, open, and _hers_.

"You do tend to do that," she points out, smirking, "all that thinking. All that brooding."

He arranges her hand so that it cups his face, and he cannot help leaning into its touch. "Some nights I don't sleep either." A bald-faced lie, naturally. Most nights he does not sleep.

"Oh." A beat. "Your nightmares."

"Mostly," Anders confirms, and before he can think about it, "sometimes it's you."

"Me?"

No response. He mentally berates himself for once again laying himself bare in front of Hawke. _What does it matter, she won't remember this in the morning or if she does, she won't ever mention it. Sweep everything under the rug, that's her._ Suddenly decisive, Anders drops her hand and moves to rise. "It's late, and I need to leave. Come find me in the morning if you want something for that hangover."

When she does nothing to stop him, his chest _twists_ even more, releasing a breath that propels him out of the bed and across the room to the door, where his hand is on the doorknob, and then just like that he has completely exited the building. He takes long, rapid strides back to Darktown, his nails digging crescent-shaped marks into his palms.

What he misses is Hawke lying motionless in bed, sobriety creeping around the edges of her mind as she tilts her hand this way and that, watching the candlelight cast shadows on the fingers that held his face.

"Me too," she sighs. "Me too."


	5. Summer nights

Scene: Anders masturbates to Hawke. Set in moments scattered across the series' timeline, but ends chronologically after the events of "In the wee hours."

* * *

The first time Anders masturbates about Thomas Hawke happens not too long after their first meeting.

It is morning, early morning, as he slowly makes his way back to the clinic from Lowtown after having attended a difficult home birth—one of Lirene's shopgirls, if he recalls correctly. His energy and concentration drained, the mage's thoughts wander carelessly from constructing the list of supplies he needs to replenish to calculating the amount required for the Coterie's monthly protection racket until he settles on contemplating his most recent _adventure_with Hawke in which they made a disastrous attempt to rescue Karl. They say first impressions are lasting, and the image of Hawke granting his former mentor a mercy kill is not one he will soon forget.

Though Anders is sure that he has at least four or five years on her, it is a fact easily forgotten when she is around, towering over everyone the way she does, the swordsman's plating lending even more weight and gravitas to her already larger-than-life aura. Not since his time in Amaranthine has he met another person with as much presence as the Warden—although the look of his former commander pales in comparison to this new intrusion in his life. Anders shakes his head. An intrusion, no doubt. She had stridden past his shanty doors, calm and unafraid in the face of his initial warning. While that smooth operator of a dwarf waved his hands and spoke honey, she had quietly stood behind him with her arms crossed, as if to escape notice.

Anders has to snort at that one: an impossible feat no matter how hard she tries. He had nodded to Varric as his eyes lingered on her, noting her striking features that are so not much pretty as they are distinct. _Handsome_would be the most suitable word for that long, angular face that framed a voluptuous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes that stared back at him, having caught his unsubtle ogling. He had coughed and looked away then, a strange hammering in his chest. It was the first time since his merger with Justice that he had thought of anything else besides the mages' plight.

Unsurprisingly, Justice was not—**is not!**—pleased. Like an illness, she had begun to creep around the fringes of his thoughts, appearing gradually or suddenly, depending on the hour. He wants to know more about her, about her brother Carver who had died on their way from Lothering, about her favorite food, about her opinion on the Circle of Magi—

Ah, but Anders knows how Hawke feels about that. He knows all too clearly, and what she thinks of him as well. The templar ambush in the Chantry had made sure of that.

He rounds a corner, entering the less slummy section of Lowtown where the Hawke family currently resides. Within minutes, he identifies Gamlen's homely abode some yards ahead of him. Anders looks up; the sky has lightened considerably from its original midnight blue. Hawke is probably inside, still asleep in a bunk bed above Bethany, one brown arm hanging out the side. It is not hard to picture in his mind for in fact, she fills his mental borders swiftly, and irresistibly—

As if summoned, the door creaks open, letting out a dusky-skinned Rivaini who sleepily leans on the doorway, her hip cocked to one side. Moments later, Hawke steps out from the shadows of the interior, her hair in disarray as she touches Isabela's arm. Their voices are too far away to discern any words, but their low, inviting tones float over to where Anders stands, rooted to the spot.

The small part of his mind that has not been frozen notes that they make for a pretty tableau: two brown, statuesque women flirting back and forth. In response to one of Hawke's (no doubt) dry witticisms, Isabela throws her head back in a throaty laugh, then snakes her arms around the other woman's neck to pull her down for a kiss that starts off perfunctory but turns languorous and lazy, their hands wandering everywhere. Hawke slowly backs the pirate against the wall of Gamlen's shack at the same time that Anders regains the use of his legs and forces himself to walk past them unnoticed, completely mute in the face of what he has just witnessed.

Why wouldn't Hawke have a go-round with Isabela? It is none of his business who she chooses to sleep with, and the two women are well-matched in their own way. This has nothing to do with him. Nothing. No thing.

**This is a waste of time.**

Anders somehow makes it back to his clinic where there is miraculously no one waiting outside for his return. Barring the doors shut, he drops his bag in the middle of the ground, darts behind a makeshift partition that separates his cot from the rest, and buries his head in his hands. The images refuse to go away, instead filling in what is happening (_could be! could be!_) after he had bolted. Hawke and Isabela, eyes alight with mischief, sliding through the doorway back inside. Isabela shoving dirty plates off of the table. Hawke's hands gripping the sides of said table for leverage. Corset ties ripped off. Open-mouthed kisses. Finger-sucking. Sighs that mingle (whose.)

Hers.

The only one he wants.

Anders groans and dips his hand beneath his trousers.

Already hard and throbbing, he takes himself in hand while carefully erasing the pirate from his fantasy to draw himself in. Now _he's_ the one leaving trail marks down her back. Now Hawke moans softly at _his_ tongue on her breast and _his_fingers that glide in and out of her with near-shocking ease. Anders hisses on the upstroke. Hawke pants into his ear, whispering filthy things he will never hear her say. Downstroke. He enters her, sinking all of the way in on the first thrust. Her legs hook around his waist. Anders bites his lip, his other hand cradling his balls.

What would she sound like? Is she a screamer? Does she whimper? No, his mind supplies, not our reserved, self-contained Hawke. Fine. Muffled groans and sighs then, while her passion manifests itself in other exciting ways. He quickens the pace, lets his established rhythm go erratic. Like: angry red bites on his neck, fingers ready to tear his hair out from the roots, muscular thighs locking around his head, sweat-sheen appearing on her forehead, the rigid arch of her back as Hawke _gasps_his name when they both

come

and Anders spills hot and heavy into his hand, eyes squeezed shut in equal parts shame, frustration, and relief. The image of her, supple and pliant, fades back into the deep recesses of his mind. When he is done, Anders uses the edges of his bed sheet to wipe away the mess with shaking hands. Judging by how long he lasted, he laughs hollowly at how out of practice he has been. Inevitably, he will see her again soon, and all she would have to do is take one look at his face, and she would know. Who is he kidding? Hawke knows everything. Reaching for the basin on his nightstand, he dips his hands in and tries, _tries_ to promise himself that this will not become a habit, that this was merely a one-time concession.

* * *

Anders stops counting after a while and grants himself this one thing to have all for himself. Some mornings he wakes up hard with the dream-scent of Hawke on his fingers and briskly does his business right before opening his clinic to Darktown's citizens. Some nights the Old Gods' call rings silent as he tosses and turns to more pleasurable visions, his hand inevitably wandering down to the tent in his pants. Sometimes he even takes breaks throughout the day. Eventually they all blur with the passing months (and years—_years?_) into an endless string of half-formed fantasies and fully formed wishes that always leave him wanting.

He would not have so much trouble abstaining were it not for the curious fact that Hawke still asks for him regularly, whether to help her gather this herb or that reagent for Solivitus, to treat the frequent wounds she and her group acquire on their misadventures, or to simply be an extra player at the table in The Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights—or Diamondback, take his pick. Anders walks away with empty pockets at the end of every game, but decides it is worth losing to that blighted elf just to see her relaxed and smiling with her feet propped up on the table.

On certain days, Anders manages to convince himself that he does not need her. That he does not want her. That the mere glimpse of the nape of her neck does _not_ send him into a heady tailspin of unwanted images and explicit sequences in the middle of combat. That he does not lo—_**no**_. So the sleepless nights, the restless afternoons, and every other hour in between can all be overcome by sheer force of will—of which he has none.

Hawke could never know how much he aches for her nor how often the image of her hair down interrupts his writing sessions, his manifesto left forgotten on the table for the umpteenth time as he takes himself in hand. Establishing a routine is far too easy as he pushes Justice to a corner in his mind and mentally wanders down the length of her back, tight and sinewy with muscle, skims his fingers up her thighs, buries his nose in her cleft, sucking and inhaling until he cannot breathe for want of her. Anders' shoulders slump afterwards, although in frustration or exhaustion he cannot tell.

And when he just so happens to meet her eyes across the tavern—or cave, shore, forest, whatever—and Hawke being bloody _Thomas Hawke_, gives him a _hint_ of a smile in acknowledgment, she has absolutely no way of knowing the heat drawn tight in his groin or the ongoing internal struggle between what he wants and what he/Justice wants. Or rather, the insidious part of his mind suggests, she knows exactly what Anders is going through whenever she looks at him and chooses to toss him scraps of her attention anyway.

Maker how he hates her.

* * *

The afternoon begins innocently enough.

"Have you found a cat then?"

Anders looks up to find Hawke staring down at him. His stomach gives a traitorous lurch. They have not seen each other since the day they got back from the Deep Roads Expedition. From what he has gathered from Varric, she has been neck-deep in negotiations for the old Amell estate, unavailable to her immediate companions for damn near two months. He had chosen to keep to himself for all this time because he does not know what to say to her in the aftermath of Bethany's departure. As for how Hawke has been truly keeping, that remains a mystery. In any case, though, she is here now.

He gets to his feet. "Not yet, though I have been trying." Gesturing to the pan of milk he has just set out, he adds with a sigh, "The people here have probably eaten most of them."

"You could ask Merrill to catch one for you," she says, "They're always bothering her in the Lowtown markets."

He thins his mouth at the mention of the blood mage. "I'm sure there are some tabbies around here. I won't give up."

When seconds pass by without a response, Anders shrugs and returns to what he had been doing before. One by one, he removes the tattered sheets and beats the bed cots in silence, dust and debris flying everywhere. He can feel Hawke's stare on his back and pictures how she must be standing: ramrod straight posture, chin up, arms loosely crossed. The back of his neck prickles. **What does she want from us? **_Your guess is as good as mine_. Maybe he should ask her how things have been going. Maybe he should also grow a set of gilded wings and decorate his clinic in pink drapes.

Hearing Hawke clear her throat, he steels his shoulders and turns around. "Is there something you need?" _Dammit. I sound like an ass_.

Her jaw clenches and unclenches. "Yes, there is."

_Is it me you need? I need y—_"Care to elaborate?"

"Right," she says, shaking her head. "I'm hoping that you have something for anxiety."

He wipes his hands on a questionably clean rag and leans against a stand. "I might. Who's this for?"

Her eyes dart elsewhere for a bit before settling back on him. "My mother."

"Leandra?" Anders has only met her a few times before the Expedition, but he remembers the warmth in her smile and the fussy, fretful gestures she would make over her daughters. "Is she alright?"

"She has trouble sleeping most days," Hawke admits, "and she can't keep her food down." Again, her eyes cast downwards. "There've been some mood swings as well."

_Has it really been that bad for her? Maybe I could come over to give Leandra a checkup—_**she did not ask for us so we will not go**. He nods. "The symptoms are common enough. I have a tonic that should help. A moment, please."

Foolish mage, foolish man, Anders tells himself as he rummages through his medicine cabinet, fingers fumbling for the correct bottle. _Just ask her how she's doing. Ask her! _**After complete silence on her part all these weeks she suddenly arrives at our doorstep, only to ask for assistance. I think not. Come Anders, we have more pressing matters at hand. The Underground**—

"Here," he says in a rush, thrusting a medium-sized bottle at her, "have her take two spoonfuls of this once a day after dinner until it runs out. Be careful with the dosage, there's a liberal amount of elfroot in there."

Hawke takes it from him, her fingers not quite brushing his. "Thank you," she murmurs, watching the clear liquid swirl around inside.

She is dressed in her usual suit of armor, but the plating does not hide the dark circles under her eyes that are deeper and more pronounced than before they had left for the Deep Roads. He swallows. _Just a simple question. That's all. _"Hawke—"

A street urchin barges in through the door, breathless. "Templars, doc! They's comin'!"

"Maker's bloody balls," Anders hisses and grabs Hawke's hand. "You don't have time to leave. Come with me."

Before she can say anything, he shoves some straw aside from a patch of floor several feet away to reveal a trapdoor, opens the latch, drags the both of them down its tiny steps, and closes the door.

The space is already tight with Anders squeezed in here, but the addition of one large clanking swordswoman have the two literally mashed together with the floor cracks above them as their only source of air. The scraggly little boy can be heard running about the clinic, deliberately destroying random objects of interest and stowing the more valuable things away. Trust Varric to hire an effective scout just for him. With his joints already starting to ache, he tries to move an arm but realizes he cannot because that would mean sliding against the part of Hawke's armor that covers her…right.

He blinks away the dust in his eyes. Hawke gives a tiny cough that he feels right next to his ear. The heat her body radiates envelops the entirety of his left side, and Anders is sure he has never committed any crime so horrible as to warrant this cruel and unusual punishment. The last time he found himself hiding in a cubby was back at the Tower—also from templars, coincidentally. He was not alone as well, and the brief moment spent crammed against each other had lead to a hushed, giggling interlude in one of the alcoves on the upper floors.

Somehow, he doubts this particular repeat will have a similar ending.

The clinic has gone silent and stays that way for a few seconds more before heavy footsteps shake the ground some yards away. How many pairs? Three, perhaps four. Hawke shifts beside him, and Anders touches what he _thinks_ is her knee, mutely shaking his head. When she does not react by shoving him against the wall, he nearly sighs in relief, letting his hand stay there under the pretense of further nonverbal communication. He does not have room to turn to see (not that he _can_in this darkness) the expression on her face.

On second thought, he can do without that piece of information.

Conversational murmurs float down, filtering through the trapdoor to reach them in scattered words. "Mage," "underground," and "Knight-Commander" are mentioned several times; Anders strains to hear more, craning his neck because _we can eavesdrop on future patrols and raids so maybe if I just move up a tad_—but Hawke puts her hand on his _thigh_ and _presses_, killing whatever impulse he had to risk exposing themselves. Her fingers are dangerously close to his crotch (_she doesn't know, she can't have known_), and this is the best and worst thing that has happened to him in forever.

_Steady now, you're not a horny teenager at the Circle anymore._ The footfalls close over the trapdoor that mercifully does not creak. Anders holds his breath and closes his eyes, digging crescent-shaped nail marks into his free hand to distract himself from the five burning points that lie inches from his smalls which have unsurprisingly grown far, far too tight. He briefly considers getting up right now and turning himself in, if only to prevent the mortifying ordeal of Hawke noticing his raging hard-on. _The Gallows or eternal shame and embarrassment? What wonderful choices._

He cannot take this much longer, but in the Maker's infinite grace, the templars linger for another minute or two before finally, miraculously, clanging their way out the door, leaving the two of them very much alone. Anders exhales harshly, gulping in breaths while Hawke mutters, "They might still be around."

"I'm sorry, Hawke, I didn't mean to drag you into th—"

"Just." A sigh. "I won't mention this again—"

"I don't even know how you've been doing. How _are_you?"

"…you've certainly chosen an odd time to ask me," she says after a pause, taking her traitorous hand off of him.

Anders shuts his mouth then, his face on fire. Wordlessly, Hawke opens the trapdoor. She is the first to climb out and effortlessly yanks the mage to his feet, wild strands escaping the bun atop her head. He surveys the damage done to his clinic—extensive, but nothing he cannot fix and salvage—covertly adjusts his clothing, and turns back to Hawke, who has produced the tonic for her mother from an unseen pocket, inspecting it for cracks or contamination. Passing scrutiny, she makes a noiseless sound of approval, stores it away, and looks at him. Her jaw keeps working.

"I'm fine," Hawke says simply. "Take care as well."

She turns on her heel and leaves him to it.

Anders stares after her, mouth agape. _Did that just happen? _Hawke came in, upturned his life _again, _and departed just as swiftly. It does not take long for the initial shock to wear off, but when it does, Justice threatens to take over. _I should have run after her. _**So she could make a fool out of you again? I forbid it. **This time, he does not bother moving to his cot. He does not even close the door all the way as he pushes his tunic aside and grabs a hold of himself, gritting his teeth in frustration. How she dare just walk away like that? How dare she leave him to clean up this mess on his own after he had given her free medicine? How dare she use him like this?

How dare she?

**This is a woman who cares nothing for you, and yet you allow yourself to be used by the likes of her**—_I know, I know! _Anders curls over himself, groaning for the satisfaction he cannot have, and reconstructs what happened moments ago. Hawke turns around, but he grabs her arm and pulls her back, growling at her to stay. He pins her against the door, swallowing her weak protests in a kiss. She becomes shorter, her hands more delicate, her face more vulnerable—more _human_. It is not difficult to hold her down and unbuckle her armor, piece by piece. They hit the floor with a terrible racket that does not mask the indecent sounds coming from her quivering, red mouth.

If only he could have her once, just the one time, maybe then he would be rid of this obsession for her. All the nights spent fantasizing about a templar-sympathizer, all the days spent assisting her on silly adventures that have nothing to do with him, all the countless hours wasted with her merry band of misfits, precious time that could be used in infinitely more productive ways: none of it makes any sense. Why should he care? He should not care. He doesn't, _I don't. I don't! _Deep down, Anders knows better, but he can pretend for as long as need be because eventually, the ruse becomes a reality, right?

Right?

Fantasy-Hawke's nails write the answer on his back as his hand twists up and down, and Anders can no longer think coherently anymore. Eyes glassy, he lies back on a cot he has just cleaned out, pumping away with abandon. Hawke scrabbling for support as he pounds into her. Anders throwing her legs over the crook of his elbows to hold her in place. Their thin, desperate pants filling the air. The rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Sweat sliding against sweat. Whispers against her ear, his voice rough with emotion, "Who's the helpless one now? Who can't get enough now? Who needs who now? Not me. Never me." A moan in response.

Yanks her hair back, exposing her neck, and breathes in her scent—earthy, smoky, unknowable; and damn if it is not her smell that sends him over the edge, and soon enough Anders is tensing up with a hand over his mouth to muffle his moans that weakly drag out for long seconds afterwards, hips jerking on the cot.

When the spasms end, he stays where he is, listlessly staring up at the ceiling. There is no feeling of exhausted afterglow for him (unless one only includes the exhausted bit.) His hands shudder at his sides. **You are weak.** _Oh shut up. I won't be so generous next time. Let's have her pull another stunt like this one. Teach her to take me for granted. I'm not her plaything. Go bother someone else, go spin mind games with Fenris or Merrill. Maker, just stay out of my head and out of my life. Please. Please._

But of course, he does not really mean any of that.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, Bodahn lets him into the house without batting an eye. Her lumbering giant of a pet does not stir from its spot in front of the fire either as the mabari turns its head towards him, its tail lying flat on the rug. Anders gingerly fingers the package in his hands. He had purposely chosen a day where Leandra would be off visiting Gamlen for tea, but had forgotten about the rest of Hawke's staff. Bodahn eyes him in a way that does not seem unkind while Orana's faint singing can be heard in a room off to the side. Sandal is nowhere to be found.

"A package for Mistress Hawke?" the dwarf inquires. "She's not in right now, but I can pass it along to her if you'd like."

Before the mage can reply, a sharp crack and the distinct sound of something expensive breaking draws the dwarf's attention. Bodahn fairly jumps, hand clapped to his chest, and raises his eyebrows sheepishly at Anders.

"My sincerest apologies, if you'll excuse me—" And takes off running to another room, his cries of "Sandal, not again!" dimly echoing back to him. The mabari pricks its ears, vaguely interested, and lays its head down again.

To his credit, Anders wavers only for a moment that quickly passes when he takes the stairs by two, arriving at Hawke's room much sooner than he had anticipated because now he is suddenly standing at her open door, recalling the only other memory he has of that room. _She's been looking more rested since Bethany left for Ansburg two weeks ago. No more falling-down-drunk nights at The Hanged Man either_. Then again, he knows all of this solely through Varric. It is a cycle he is tired of: these extended absences from her side interspersed with short bursts of arguments, awkward silences, or both—none of which, he laments, lead to what he dreams about at night.

No one is upstairs to see him walk through the doorway. The interior looks exactly the same as it had the night he helped her home, clean and spare, with no new additions to the décor. Steady, his intrepid leader, and since when had he begun to think of Thomas Hawke as his to claim? Shaking his head, Anders sets the package on her desk, its coarse, brown casing crackling as it rubs against the wood. He lets his hand linger, then slide from desk to chair to along the blank cream walls, committing more sensory details to memory until he comes to a stop at her bed.

_Didn't Bodahn say she would be out for a while?_ There is a little voice in most people's heads that is meant to guide them to making careful, cautious decisions. The apostate has his own substitute, but he ignores that too by sitting on her folded covers and digging his fingers into the fabric. **What foolhardy thing are you about to do now—**_Nothing! It's not like that. I'm not going to wank off in her house with the dwarves, the elf, and the bloody dog right downstairs. I just want this…_He lies back on her bed face-down, banishing all other thoughts. Her scent saturates the sheets. Anders is undone.

What would it be like to come back to this after a day's work at the clinic? Stripping off his ragged, filthy robes to soak in the bath for at least an hour, using a whole, uncracked mirror to shave, and climbing under the covers to find her warm and waiting with steady eyes that promise she will always be there? Her patient ear that would listen to every life he could not save, every mage he could not free, every complaint about that damn tattooed elf, every worry every fear every doubt and the ultimate plea he has not spoken aloud since his earliest days in the Circle _and will not speak. _

They would have dinner on the evenings that he does not have to stay out late. Read by the fire. Shop at the Hightown markets. Get a cat or two. She would accept his magic, and he would care for her out in the open, damn the consequences.

She could share in what happiness he does have left, if only that she would. Anders closes his eyes. If only.

* * *

Anders knows something is terribly wrong when he blearily cracks an eye open to find that he is still in Hawke's room. He wiggles his fingers, feeling the smooth sheets beneath him. What time is it? How long had he _fallen asleep in Hawke's bed oh Maker above_. _Of all the situations I can't do anything right shit shit shit—_Once the initial wave of shame and embarrassment passes, he recoups his thoughts. Has no one come up here to check? _Bodahn must have assumed I left after dropping off my package. But what about Orana? Sandal? The dog? _

The bed rustles as he gets up, eyes drawn to the unopened parcel sitting on the desk. Hawke has not yet arrived then. There is time yet to escape this predicament unseen. Or it could be that she is home and has decided to throw away his package later. _Or maybe I should stop rambling_ _and figure out how to leave before anyone sees me how could I have been this stupid—_

"You're awake."

Luckily, Anders does not jump three feet into the air and merely whips his head to the doorway where Hawke (in a soft red robe he has never seen before but could stand to see again) is standing, her hand draped over the doorknob while she spares a glance at the small box atop her letters. He is already on his feet with his hands in the air by the time she looks back, holding her mouth strangely. Justice has gone silent, and he is quite alone inside his head.

Gesturing feebly to the desk, he begins, "I came in to drop off some medicine."

She raises an eyebrow. "I didn't ask for—"

"I know," Anders goes on hastily, "but I remember what you said the other day—night. That you had trouble ah, sleeping." _Keep going, finish what you have to say, and get the hell out._ "I had extra bottles of tonic lying around and thought I'd just bring one or two here so Bodahn let me in, but then Sandal broke something and he told me to take it to your room (_Lies!_) which I did and…well." _I am the picture of coherence_. _Why hasn't the ground swallowed me up yet?_

Hawke had seemed to stiffen at his brief mention of That Night She Was Inebriated, but when he trails off at the end, the corners of her mouth twitch, whether in amusement or suppressed irritation he does not know. He is painfully aware of what he must look like right now, all rumpled feathers (_Ha!_) and pillow-marked face on the area he had slept on. She strides over to his side of the room to inspect the unsolicited care package while he remains frozen.

Hawke tears open the wrapping and blinks at the bottles' familiar appearance—"Is this what you gave my mother two years ago?"

"Most likely. If I remember correctly, you two have very similar symptoms."

She sets the bottle down, her back turned to him, and after a second murmurs, "I'm everything like her, it seems."

"Wait, what did you s—"

"Thank you for the donation," she says firmly, facing him again. "Was there anything else you have for me?"

It is not a slap, but Anders feels the sting on his cheek anyway. "No," he mumbles. "Excuse me then," he starts, sidestepping Hawke, who does not let him get away so easily. Stilling him with a well-placed hand on his shoulder, she works her jaw in what he now knows to be to her go-to habit for when she is searching for the right words to say some wise, pithy phrase that usually ends fights and smoothes whatever diplomatic relations the Viscount has her presiding over. The apostate holds his breath and waits.

For one agonizing minute, her wide, grey eyes flicker between him and the messy bed, furiously calculating. Anders braces himself for the rebuke that never comes because she gives her head a tiny, imperceptible shake and releases him instead, skating her bare fingers down his arm that morph into a pointed gesture towards the open door. At last, he takes her gentle warning for what it is and walks out with his dignity somewhat intact—too bad he cannot say the same for rest of him.

* * *

A/N: Alright guys, this is where you've caught up with me and my slow-ass writing self. I don't know when the next installment's going to be because I'm still working on that over in the kinkmeme (been working on it since February o_o) so here's to hoping I'll eventually get out of my writer's funk and finish it in a timely manner.


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